Shot in the Dark (Blackbridge Security 2)

Having barely escaped death, I step off the machine and power it down. The old man across the room is glaring at me as if my almost demise is putting a damper on his ability to lift the three-pound weights in his hands. His face screws up, and it’s clear he’s seconds away from pointing to the NO PHONE CALLS sign hanging on the wall, so I do the only thing I can manage which is giving him a weak smile, a half-assed wave, and I walk out of the gym.

I call my bestie Sarah back. When she answers, instead of saying hello, I say “You just made an old man hate me.”

“How is that possible? Everyone loves you.” If I had to guess, I imagine her rolling her eyes.

She is a loveable person. One of the very few friends I have that actually has a social life outside of her computer. Thank God she lives in California because if she were closer, she’d be one of the friends showing up on Friday nights that I’d have to avoid.

“This old man hates everyone,” I grumble.

I don’t know this for a fact, but he doesn’t seem like he’s had a pleasant experience in his life from the scowl stuck on his wrinkled face each time I’ve seen him.

“Why are you up so early?”

“It’s not early. It’s after ten.”

“After eight,” I mock as I collapse on a bench in the hallway.

“I know you’re not a morning person, but you were on my to-do list this morning.”

“I’m on a list?” I mean, I’m sure I’m on numerous lists, but Sarah isn’t the type to come after me for uncovering information people don’t want me to find.

“I made a note late yesterday to reach out to you about the package.”

And that’s not the least bit vague. “The package?”

“The one I sent you?” She snickers, and even after my half-hearted attempt at exercise today, it’s still too early to deal with her perkiness. She better be glad I love her so much.

“I didn’t get a package.”

“It says delivered yesterday morning. Don’t they call you when something arrives?”

“They do,” I hedge.

My apartment complex is very efficient. At least that’s what they call themselves when they notify me of something arriving that won’t fit into my small mailbox. I’m certain it has more to do with their annoyance of something not belonging to them taking up space behind the front desk, but I tend to lean toward the cynical side of life.

“And they didn’t?”

“Didn’t what?”

I wipe my hand over my face, surprised to pull it away damp. Sweat means hard work, so I refuse to feel guilty about my workout being cut short. Sweat means tacos for dinner, and I live for the chance to devour half a dozen or so.

“They didn’t notify you?”

“Nope.”

Knowing she isn’t going to let it go, I jump on the elevator to head to the front desk even though it’s only two flights of stairs down. I already did the stairs once today and I’ll wait until the second coming of Christ before I do it twice in one day.

“I’m going to check,” I assure her as I climb off the elevator and head in the direction of a smiling girl I don’t recognize.

Where’s Adrian? Adrian is nice and mostly pleasant to deal with.

The counter girl giggles like a middle-schooler at the guy standing in front of her, and it’s clear she’s in no hurry to wrap up her flirting to see what I need.

At least Adrian would hurry up to help me. Granted, he’d talk to my tits rather than my face, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“You’re going to love it,” Sarah says.

My eyes cut toward the AirPod in my right ear, as if looking in that direction would help me evaluate the misplaced cheer in her tone.

“What did you send me?” I’m already suspicious. This wouldn’t be the first time she’s sent me something. We send each other stuff all the time, but if memory serves correctly, this is the very first time she has called to verify receipt of a delivery.

“You’ll see,” she singsongs, and I’m seconds away from going back upstairs and refusing to take delivery of my package when the girl behind the counter rudely clears her throat and glares at me.

“Can I help you?”

My head snaps back at the irritation in her voice. Excuse me for interrupting your flirting and forcing you to actually do your job.

The guy at the counter winks at me as he walks past, but I ignore him. Do guys think that actually works? Gross.

“I had a package delivered.”

She tilts her head to the side as if I’ve spoken in a different language.

“Whitney Nelson, apartment 913.” She continues to stare like I’ve grown an additional head in the last sixty seconds. “Too big to fit in my box. Delivered yesterday. Adrian usually holds them behind the desk.”